


Obsidian and Light

by theSapphireSky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Molly, F/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2471384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theSapphireSky/pseuds/theSapphireSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Molly Hooper wasn't everything Sherlock thought she was? With Moriarty and a new Puppet Master threatening the world, Sherlock has to come to terms with a new reality before he loses something infinitely precious to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Revelations

_This is why you should have texted Mycroft, stupid idiot._

Damn his pride. The last thing he wanted to do was die because he wouldn’t call his brother for assistance. God knows, Mycroft would probably have that etched onto his gravestone.

Here lies

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

He was a willful idiot

Died from too much damn pride

 

Sherlock imagined his brother tsk-ing over his bullet-ridden corpse, muttering about how now he’d have to bring Mummy and Daddy to every play now.

Standing across from him in this forsaken, dirty warehouse, Sebastian Moran, First Lieutenant of the Consulting Criminal, James Moriarty, leveled a gun at him with a smile.

‘My boss would be disappointed with how easily you have given up, Mister Holmes,’ he taunted.

‘Your boss is dead,’ Sherlock retorted, clasping his hands behind his back in a stance of casualness.

Moran’s grip tightened on the handle of the gun, ‘That mouth is going to be your end someday.’

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, ‘Oh? Not today, then?’

Moran’s nose twitched in annoyance. He pulled out a cell phone with his free hand. ‘Now.’ He commanded to the person on the other side, then shoved the phone back into his pocket.

‘I have so many plans for killing you, Sherlock. But that seems so final; Not at all like the game Jimmy loved to play. And although I want to see your rotting corpse decorating my front porch, I like the idea of watching you suffer, so…’

Right on cue, the door behind Moran opened. Sherlock flicked his gaze over his enemy’s shoulder and felt his heart stop.

A large brute shoved his way in, dragging Molly Hooper in behind him. Her lip was cut and she cradled her free arm against her body. Apparently she put up a fight against whomever kidnapped her.

Sherlock took a step toward her, but Moran waved his gun at him and tutted, ‘Now, now, Sherlock. What good are you to her if you die from disobedience?’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Moran. ‘Why bring her here? She’s unimportant.’ Even as he said it, he prayed that Moran would not hear his pounding heart or see his utter fear that Molly was in mortal danger.

‘Unimportant?’ Moran scoffed. ‘She’s ‘the woman who counted’.’

Sherlock flinched and Molly squeaked almost imperceptibly.

‘I pay attention to the details, Sherly,’ Moran smirked. ‘And, in fact, we didn’t bring her here. She fought her way inside.’

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he stared past Moran to Molly. She was trembling, but her eyes were zeroed in on the back of Moran’s head.

‘And now, you’re going to watch the ‘woman who counts’ die.’

‘No,’ Sherlock gritted his teeth and took a step forward. Behind Moran, he could see Molly trembling, her entire body on edge. He tried to stay calm, to assure her that he had everything in control.

But Moran destroyed that plan.

‘Then again, having you die not knowing all that I have planned for your dear Molly,’ Moran grinned wickedly, ‘ _that_ seems much more appealing.’

Before he could react, Moran whirled about, his armed hand arcing above his head until it targeted Sherlock, lining up the bullet’s trajectory directly with Sherlock’s heart. In the space of a heartbeat, Sherlock watched as Moran pulled the trigger. A rushing sound filled his ears as time seemed to slow down. He knew that this time, this time he would not survive. The bullet, even if it missed his heart, would drive itself into his chest with enough force to topple him, spreading pain and death in its wake. Molly would be left alone with this monster and would likely be killed before Mycroft found them.

He barely had time to feel that bitter regret before the buzzing was obliterated by the loud gunshot.

He closed his eyes, waiting for the impact.

His heart thudded in grim anticipation.

Suddenly, a gentle warmth embraced him.

He opened his eyes and looked down, expecting to see blood spreading across his shirt, the pain following soon after; once the shock had worn off.

Instead, his vision was obscured by a crown of brown hair, familiar hands gripping his arms. It took exactly four heartbeats for him to realize what had happened.

Molly tilted her head up and smiled at him, despite the agonizing pain radiating from her eyes. Sherlock grabbed her arms as her legs collapsed from under her.

‘No, Molly, no,’ he gasped, lowering her gently to the floor. From the corner of his eye, he could see Moran watching them, shocked at the turn of events, but an evil grin invading his face.

She grimaced, ‘Sherlock, get out of here. Go!’ Her voice was laced in agony. He ignored her feeble attempts to push him away and instead cradled her close. The bullet had hit her in the back, upper right. The shock and blood loss would be enough to kill her in a matter of minutes.

If she had not stepped in front of him, it would have hit his own heart.

The one that was now breaking.

A tear escaped his eye and Molly reached up to brush it away.

She arched as a wave of pain coursed through her body. She gritted her teeth and groaned. ‘Go,’ she spat out with great effort. ‘You need to go now!’

Sherlock felt his heart shatter as she closed her eyes and her breathing slowed. With a last pitiful whisper for him to run, she stilled. He leaned his forehead against hers, feeling the rush of heartbreak pull his world out from under his feet.

‘Pity,’ Moran sauntered over and nudged Molly with his foot, ‘That bullet was meant for you. Shame to waste it on this human drivel.’

Fury and sorrow burned white hot as Sherlock placed a reverent kiss to her forehead. As he shifted her body to the floor, he felt a cold metal caress his arm. A dagger, slipped up the arm of her cherry-laden cardigan was peeking out the edge of her sleeve.

He grew cold with realization. She’d never intended to make it out. She’d sacrificed herself to get him an advantage, a fighting chance. And if she hadn’t shown up, he would assuredly be dead in her place. He stood up slowly and lifted his head to stare into the laughing face of Moran.

‘Have I struck a nerve, Mister Holmes?’ He taunted. ‘Or perhaps it’s not a nerve I’ve hit, but your heart.’

With a roar, Sherlock lunged.

‘You bastard!’ Sherlock bellowed as he grappled with Moran, the dagger slicing through the air. Though equally matched in technique, Moran had the upper hand in weaponry, pulling his own blade from the heel of his boot and attempting to stab Sherlock at every turn. The gun, having fallen from Moran’s grip when Sherlock tackled him, was kicked aside.

A thrumming filled the room, unheard at first by the fighting men, but growing in intensity. The floor began to vibrate as the thrumming grew louder, the walls joining and the window glass shaking.

With Moran holding the blade to his neck, Sherlock’s hands trying to pull it away, the two men became aware of the noise and change in atmosphere.

A bright light illuminated the dank room. Moran turned his face away, but did not loosen his grip or pull the blade away. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly against the light.

Suddenly, in a rush of wind, Moran’s weight was gone from his chest, the sharp blade absent from his throat.

The light faded and Sherlock opened his eyes, sitting up as he did so. He looked around for Moran, ready for another attack. To his shock, his enemy lay several meters to his right, smoke rising from his well-burnt corpse.

‘Leave.’

He whipped his head around at the familiar voice.

There, alive and well, stood Molly Hooper. Gaping, he stood up, never taking his eyes from her face.

‘You’re alive,’ he gasped breathlessly.

‘I told you to leave,’ she reiterated, cold wrath threading through her tone. Sherlock blinked in surprise.

Suddenly, the entire situation came back to him. He glanced back at the smoldering corpse and then back to Molly. His gaze dropped and he froze. Dangling from her hand was a heavy blade of white metal.  

‘Molly?’ A confused frown marred his features.

She ignored him and marched over to the body of Moran, kneeling down beside it, leaning on the upright sword.

‘I don’t understand.’ He hated himself for saying something so ordinary, but he could not deduce how the woman before him, whom he had seen take a bullet and collapse, was now walking about, with a _sword._

‘There’s a lot you don’t understand, Sherlock,’ Molly quipped as she straightened up. Sherlock watched as she lifted her sword with both hands. She suddenly stilled and glanced behind her at the door.

‘You need to leave,’ she demanded coldly.

Sherlock scoffed, ‘I most certainly will not. You were killed, you _died_. Now I want some answers.’

Her jaw clenched in anger as she stared him down. No longer the shy pathologist who risked her job to help him, who _sacrificed_ herself to save him, Molly stood with the bearing of a warrior. But Sherlock was not one to admit defeat and turn tail. He stared right back, determined to get his answers.

Finally, Molly spat, ‘As you wish, Mister Holmes. But remember, _I told you to leave._ ’

She whirled back to the corpse and took a steadying breath.

As she raised the white blade above her, tip pointing to the ground, a white light began to encircle her. Sherlock took an involuntary step back as more lights appeared. Afraid to look away and miss something, he watched wide-eyed as the lights encompassed her entire body then vanished.

He gaped in shock.

Instead of her familiar, yet bloody clothes, Molly was now garbed in a tunic of pure white, silver armor laced around her vulnerable areas. A breastplate hugged her torso and wrapped over her shoulders, silver bands protected her arms. She wore a pair of white pants that were tucked neatly into knee-high white boots, silver calf guards protected her legs, laced up the sides. A belt cinched her waist, an empty scabbard for her sword on one side, and a dagger and a number of pouches on the other. Her hair remained in a braided plait, but silver strands shone through the weaving.

But of all that shocked him about her metamorphosis, the pair of armored wings extending from her mid-back were the most astounding. They were not the vision of romantic feathered, angel-like wings from fairytales. Rather, they were sharp and intimidating, the silver chain armor gleamed in the minimal light from the dirty windows. With a breadth of nearly five feet, the armor chinked as the wings unfurled.

He observed all this within the space of a breath, which was enough time for Molly to raise her sword a bit higher and then plunge it ruthlessly into the heart of the corpse at her feet.

A flash of blinding light, then the body dissipated into a black mist, a distant scream breaking the silence.

A slow clapping turned their attention to the door. The shadows obscured the man’s face, but his voice was all too familiar.

‘Well done, Miss Hooper. You surprised me, recognizing a demi-mortal soul.’

‘James,’ Molly narrowed her eyes.

Jim Moriarty grinned and sauntered into the room, his hands in his pockets. He completely ignored Sherlock, who maintained a cool exterior despite the shock he was feeling, and sidled up to Molly.

He smiled wickedly at her and dragged a finger seductively down her neck to the top of her breastplate. ‘Mm, darling, if you had shown me this side of you, we might never have broken up.’

Molly hadn’t even flinched at his touch, but disgust was written all over her face.

‘Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t missed me,’ Jim pouted.

‘Will those be your final words, James?’ Molly asked, her eyebrows raised, her grip tightening around her sword’s handle.

Jim chortled madly, ‘Good golly, Miss Molly, how you’ve changed!’ He sauntered over to Sherlock, ‘Isn’t she scrumptious, Mister Holmes?’

Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow, still trying to understand this new reality.

His eyes still on Sherlock, Jim called out, ‘So, tell me, Molly Hooper,’ he turned his black eyes back to her, ‘what are you?’

When Molly didn’t answer, he glanced between the two of them.

Realization dawned and he clapped his hands gleefully, ‘Oh, ho, ho! You haven’t even told _him._ Does the great Sherlock Holmes not know something? Something about his precious pathologist? Tell me, Mister Holmes,’ his Irish lilt taunting the other man, ‘how does it feel to know that the person you care for most in the world, the one woman you have always _counted on_ has hidden a _major_ part of her life from you?’

‘Enough, James.’

Molly’s command merely elicited another smirk from the Consulting Criminal.

‘Oh, Miss Hooper,’ he sing-songed. ‘I find myself… _quite intrigued_ by the goddess warrior before me.’

‘A warrior, yes,’ Molly stepped closer, ‘but I am far from a goddess.’

‘Perhaps an angel, then,’ he raked a lewd gaze over her wings, ‘I’ve always had a sort of _kink_ for defiling the holy.’

Moving too fast to see, Molly suddenly had Moriarty pinned against the wall, her white blade against his throat. ‘I assure you, my holiness is no longer attainable. And I will not be threatened.’

A flash of surprise crossed the Irishman’s face. He quickly schooled his features into a terrifying smile. ‘Then, dear Molly, why not join me? I seem to be in need of a lieutenant.’ His gaze flicked to the burnt body of Sebastian Moran.

He choked a bit as Molly pressed the blade into his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.  

‘I’ve died a thousand deaths, James,’ she spat, ‘I’ll die a thousand more before I join you.’ His smile fell and his eyes darkened to almost obsidian. A flash of something powerful swept through the room and she released him quickly and roughly, keeping her blade at the ready.  He straightened up and brushed his suit off in disgust at having it soiled.

‘Very well, then. I look forward to our battle, my dear,’ he bowed mockingly before smirking at the dumbfounded Sherlock, ‘When Sleeping Beauty here wakes up, be sure to remind him that I still owe him. And it seems I’ve found a _delightful_ way for him to collect.’

With a final wave, he turned and left the room, shouting a mocking ‘buh-bye’ over his shoulder.

The door clanged shut behind Moriarty, leaving Molly and Sherlock standing in the darkening room. Sherlock continued to stare at Molly’s back, trying to comprehend everything that had happened. For her part, Molly was trying to come up with an explanation. She sheathed her sword in its scabbard and adjusted her breastplate.

Finally, she turned back around and faced Sherlock.

He narrowed his eyes as he stared at her, absorbing a multitude of confounding data, none of which he could decipher. Several minutes passed and Molly began to fidget under his scrutiny. With a heavy sigh, she walked over to him.

‘Sherlock,’ she stopped several feet from him and tried to catch his eye. ‘Look at me.’

He hesitantly raised his eyes to hers. She could see the distrust, the fear, the awe in his gaze. Slowly, she reached her hand up and gently touched his cheek.

‘I’m still me,’ she whispered. ‘I’m still your Molly.’

He swallowed thickly. The very foundations of his Mind Palace were quaking as the evidence of what he had seen was contradicting all his previous certainties and beliefs. He stepped away, her hand falling empty to her side.

‘No, you’re not.’


	2. Calm my dark thoughts

The storm-tossed waves crashed against the face of the cliff. Lightning flashed in the distance, over the ocean, the quiet, yet deep rumble of thunder following. The whipping wind promised the arrival of the storm upon the shore.

Her hands slack at her side, Molly stared out at the encroaching darkness, her toes curled over the edge of the cliff, her armored wings tightly bound to her back.

It would be easy to end it. Simple as leaning forward.

But it really wouldn’t end.

Instead of the silence of death she craved, she would suffer the agony of drowning, of being tossed against the jagged rocks at the foot of the cliff. Then, as the last breath of life was torn from her body, the renewal would begin. Her body would heal. Her wounds disappear, her lungs emptied of the toxic water, her heart beating steadily once more.

Her flawless skin would bear no mark of her injuries.

But the memories would remain.

She closed her eyes and stepped back, breathing deeply of the damp wind. It was always after a death experience that the memories were closest to the surface. With each flash of lightning, each rumble of thunder, she fought the urge to dwell, to remember the pain and torture inflicted time and time again.

But of all the deaths she’d died, this last one was the most devastating. Watching Sherlock turn his back on her killed the little bit of humanity she had managed to hold on to, the hope that she could be happy, that she could be like them, that she could be normal for one life.

But Molly Hooper was a lie. And the lie had been discovered.   
  
She had fought so hard to keep her secret hidden, to prevent the great detective from deducing her true nature. She had fallen into the character she had created and became Molly Hooper, pathologist, cat-lover, average, human, normal, and utterly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Not all of Molly Hooper was a lie.

Her name, for instance, was actually Molly. But she abandoned her true surname over the years. It was easier, for her, to adopt a new last name every couple decades. Hopping from continent to continent, trying to make a life for a time then leaving before questions were raised about her un-aging appearance.

And the true Molly loved Sherlock Holmes like she’d never loved before. She had never met anyone like him, so brilliant, so emotionally-clueless, but with a heart that binds itself tightly to a close few and willing to sacrifice anything for them.

The hope she had carried, futile and idealistic, was obliterated by three words.

_‘No, you’re not.’_

Her heart clenched in the familiar pain of heartbreak. His words echoed in her mind, taunting her, reminding her that she would never be free from the chains of immortality that bound her to this life of solitude and exile, living amongst the humans but to never be one of them.

With a cry of despair, she collapsed to her knees, her armor clanking against the slate. Great sobs wracked her small frame, tears long withheld poured down her face. Her anguished cries were lost amid the oncoming thunder.

The storm drew overhead and as the first drop of rain touched her skin, she opened her eyes and raised her head to the heavens.

‘Why?’ she whispered brokenly.

The answering thunder crashed around her as the sky let loose sheets of rain, soaking her immediately.

‘Why am I alone?’ she shouted in anguish, pleading with whatever being had cursed her existence to answer her, to tell her that her suffering was not in vain. That there was an end in sight.

But there was no response.

Her wings unfurled, their silver armor disappearing into the air, unveiling silver and white feathers, darkened by the rain. Curling them around herself, Molly cried.

She was alone. Again.

She always would be.

* * *

 

When the storm passed and her tears had dried, she raised her red-rimmed eyes to the horizon. Her tangled hair lay in damp tendrils around her face, the silver strands glistening in the rising Sun.

With slow movements, Molly stood to her feet and opened her wings to dry in the warm light.

_Enough._ She lifted her chin and straightened her back. The tender, broken heart in her chest continued to throb and ache. But with determined focus, she set about barricading the shards of hope behind a wall of indifference.

Too many times had she been hurt, been heartbroken.

Now, her only purpose was to find Moriarty.

Destroy him.

Then disappear once more.

London would be a distant memory.

And Sherlock along with it.


	3. A Dark History

'No, you're not.'

In an instant, Sherlock saw utter despair cross Molly's fair, flawless features. The silver ring around her chocolate eyes dimmed and she turned her head.

'Perhaps you're right.'

She vanished in a whisper of the wind, no evidence of her presence left behind.

He stared at the spot she had occupied, trying to prevent his Mind Palace from collapsing entirely while fighting the unknown feelings roaring in his chest; betrayal, anguish, sorrow.

His mind fogged, the very foundations of his Mind Palace shattering under the two impossibilities he'd just faced:

1\. The laws of everything he'd ever believed as a man of logic and science had been bent to the point of breaking in front of his very eyes

2\. Molly Hooper was a liar

In a daze, he slowly turned and walked to the door, Mycroft's men bursting into the room from all sides, running past him and clearing the room. He didn't hear their calls, the radio static as they relayed the scene to his brother. His feet led him to the street and he slid into the unmarked car idling at the curb, his eyes still glazed over as he desperately tried to keep his Mind Palace from collapsing around him.

The car pulled away.

Across from him, Mycroft sat primly, one leg crossed over the other, the ever-present brolly at his side. Wordlessly, he handed a thick, tan folder to the Consulting Detective.

Written in thick, black letters across the front was the title 'Zephyr'.

Sherlock stared at it, knowing exactly what was inside. A flash of anger briefly overwhelmed his shock.

Mycroft had had it ready. He had known about Molly and had known Sherlock would eventually find out about her. He'd known for some time, it seemed, due to the sheer amount of information in the file.

Sherlock flipped open the file. Clipped to the top of the dossier was an aged picture, several decades old based on the deterioration of the ink. A familiar face stared back at him.

Molly.

'What is she?' Sherlock asked, not looking away from the picture of the sweet, blushing pathologist he'd known.

Mycroft sighed. 'I do not know.' He fiddled with the handle of his brolly, 'She would have remained an unknown enigma had she not crossed paths with you, brother mine. When it became apparent she would be an asset, I had her background thoroughly dissected. Her history is… intriguing.'

'Yet you did not think to tell me about this before today?' Sherlock spat as he stared down at the file.

'Would you have believed me, Sherlock?' Mycroft quirked an eyebrow tellingly. 'As it is, I, myself, took significant pains to procure evidence of her true nature.'

Sherlock's head whipped up and he narrowed his eyes, 'What did you do to her?'

Mycroft sighed heavily, 'Nothing so… horrible as to be determined inhumane, I assure you. She has proven herself to be most resilient.'

'She works for you, doesn't she?'

'In a manner of speaking.' Mycroft smirked. 'Enough about the pathologist. Why was there no trace of Moriarty's body in the warehouse?'

Silence fell between them.

'She let him go.'

Mycroft's grip on his umbrella tightened. 'I see.'

Those two words immediately caught Sherlock's entire attention. Mycroft was able to easily conceal any emotion. Except anger. It released itself in a dangerous calm, like the breath before the oncoming storm. Sherlock saw his brother's fury, in the tightening of his hand on his brolly and the near frigid, even tone.

They rode the rest of the way to Baker Street in silence.

As the car pulled up to the curb, Mycroft cleared his throat.

'Tread carefully, Sherlock. A new, evermore dangerous game is, as you say, afoot.'

With a scowl, Sherlock ducked out of the car, the file clasped tightly in his hand.

* * *

**Two days later**

With a timeline crossing the wall behind the sofa, Sherlock had mapped out the dual-identity of Molly Hooper. There were generous gaps in the information file, decades without any trace of her. The earliest notice of her was in 1845, under the name Margaret 'Molly' Collins. Since then, every so often, her surname was altered, her occupation changed, but her style and appearance remained the same.

Sherlock stared at the distorted lines.

It felt surreal, something he loathed. He was a scientist, a logician. Everything he knew was based in solid fact and reality. This… this was beyond anything he'd ever comprehended. He had no knowledge or experience in anything otherworldly.

And he didn't like not knowing.

He resented that Molly had kept a secret from him. Molly Hooper had hidden something monumental from him and he wasn't sure if he was more upset about his entire reality being challenged or… that Molly had not trusted him with her secret.

'It wasn't about trust.'

Sherlock whirled around in surprise. Molly stood by the door, dressed in her usual baggy trousers and cherry covered cardigan. Everything about her screamed 'ordinary'.

'I didn't say-'

Molly smiled sadly, 'I've learned how to read people just as well as you, over the years, Sherlock. It just took me longer than you to hone my skills. Much longer.'

Sherlock turned back to the wall.

He heard her sigh and make her way across the room to stand at his side. They stared at the haphazard collage for some time in silence.

'It was for your protection,' Molly finally broke the silence. Her soft voice was laced with sadness, but remained resolute.

'From whom?'

From the corner of his eye, he saw Molly breathe deeply. 'From everything.'

He huffed and spat, 'Vague, mysterious, self-important. I can see why Mycroft is fond of you as an asset. You've all the makings of his ideal protégé.'

Her hand twitched at her side, but she remained silent.

'Ah, you even have the 'silence is the upper-hand' attitude down to a science!'

'Shut up,' she hissed. 'You have  _no_ idea what is out there. My silence is a shield between you and a thousand things that would seek to destroy you. Your little dabbles with Moriarty are part of a bigger game.'

'Yes, and if I am to believe that you, it's apparently a game you have been playing all along.' Sherlock turned, towering over her, his eyes flashing in angry realization.

Molly whispered, 'You weren't even supposed to be there.' She closed her eyes and sighed, 'I knew Moriarty would show. Your presence forced me to change my tactics. And then you wouldn't leave.'

Molly turned away from him, a tear making its way down her cheek. She whispered bitterly, 'You weren't supposed to find out.'

They stood in silence. Questions burned his tongue, but refused to be spoken, his heart thundered with heartbreak, disappointment and aggravation.

'Whatever you think of me, I'm on your side' she spoke softly.

Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow and snapped bitterly, 'But there's always something I miss. You expect me to believe you're some form of  _otherworldly_ warrior, powerful and immortal. I have serious doubts about what I've seen, it's a road I've traveled before.' The Baskerville case taught him to be even more discerning about putting too much trust in what his human eyes have seen. 'Forgive me for struggling to understand this possible shift in my reality.'

Molly winced at his tone.

His Mind Palace was crumbling, things he had once never doubted, like the bloody laws of physics, were suddenly cast out into a pit of uncertainty. He raked a hand through his hair, unaware of its violent tremor, as he turned his scowl upon her once more.

'Yet even with all your so-called  _power_ ,' he spat, 'you let Moriarty waltz out of that room with nary a scratch.'

Her head snapped up in shock and anger. 'I did not  _let_ him waltz out the room, Sherlock Holmes. There is more at play here than a simple criminal network. I made the right choice, the  _only_ choice to get you out alive.'

He cocked his head back as he laughed mockingly, 'You killed Moran while he was on top of me, without so much as singeing me. You easily could have stopped Moriarty.'

Molly shook her head and turned her face away in contemplation, 'Something else is controlling him. Something… dark.'

'Oh, that's very informative,' Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Damn it, Sherlock, just trust me, killing him would probably bring about something even worse,' she pleaded, the Molly he knew coming through.

'Trust you? After everything you've thrown at me?' He bellowed, causing her to rear back in surprise.

Her eyes softened, 'I know this is a lot to try to comprehend. Especially for someone like you, whose mind is based in science and logic. But I'm still Molly. I've never lied to you about who I am. I simple omitted  _what_ I am.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her rationale.

She reached out and brought his gaze back to her solemn eyes. 'I've never felt darkness that powerful, Sherlock. Moriarty was never that powerful. Whatever this is… whoever this is… they're powerful and Moriarty may just be a pawn.'

'Wonderful,' Sherlock deadpanned.

Before he could say more, the door below opened and a familiar voice shouted up the stairs.

John.

Molly's eyes widened as she flicked her gaze to the wall. 'Sherlock, please,' she whispered. 'Don't tell him what I am. Don't let him see that.'

The footsteps on the stairs grew closer. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. His oft-silenced heart urged him to protect her, to keep her secrets safe. But the ego he'd fed for decades had been broken, his deductive reasoning had been accused of failing him, and both were demanding indisputable proof. And a tad bit of revenge against the woman who threatened their infallibility.

'No.'

Her eyes widened in shock.

Time slowed to a crawl as Sherlock made his move. He knew what he was about to do could end very badly. But he needed further proof. He needed to see it with his own eyes. And there was no time to lose, if he had indeed fallen into a more dangerous game.

There was a eight-second time frame before John had an eye-line into the flat. Each second passed slowly as Sherlock spun around and lunged for the table. From the corner of his eye, he saw Molly begin to recover from her brief shock. He estimated she was able to vanish, and would if he didn't hurry, within six seconds.

His hand grasped the familiar, cool metal and he swung around quickly, his arm outstretched.

With an unerring eye, he raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The sound of the bullet piercing the air coincided with John's final step on the staircase.

Screaming in pain, Molly collapsed to her side, her hand immediately covering her wounded thigh. Blood seeped through her fingers, coating the wood floor in a dark puddle.

'Jesus Christ, Sherlock!' John shouted as he raced into the room, immediately rushing to Molly's aid. He shrugged his coat off and was about to press it to her leg when Sherlock pulled him back.

'Don't soil your jacket,' he said nonchalantly.

'What the  _bloody Hell_ have you done?' John wrenched himself from Sherlock's grasp and knelt beside Molly, who was shaking violently, tears of pain flooding down her cheek. He tore the tattered pant leg away, exposing her thigh. 'You shattered her femur, Sherlock! Call the paramedics!'

'No,' Sherlock stood over them, his narrowed eyes fixed on Molly, his heart beating frantically in his chest. Still in doctor mode, John improvised a tourniquet with Sherlock's nearby scarf, tying it above the wound. He then made to lift Molly up and get her to the A&E.

'Then I'll drive her,' he grunted, hoisting up the petite pathologist.

'Put me down,' Molly's grunted command laced with pain halted John's movements. He stared at her incredulously, about to protest. But her focus was still stubbornly on Sherlock. John hesitantly obeyed, lowering her to the floor and grimacing in sympathy as she cried out.

Her face was pale and sweaty as she tried to breathe through the pain. Sherlock could see that she was about to pass out from the agony.

John pulled out his mobile, dialing for the paramedics, when a gentle vibrating hum filled the room, barely audible above Molly's ragged breaths. He raised his head in question. Molly had not taken her gaze from Sherlock, knowing, despite her agony, exactly what he was trying to prove. He steadfastly refused to offer assistance or comfort. The humming persisted and to John's complete shock, it appeared to emanate from Molly. She suddenly closed her eyes in a wave of agony, clenching her teeth and groaning loudly. John gaped as silver threads of light, barely visible to his eye, began to weave across the bullet hole in her thigh, like haphazard stitches binding the flesh together.

The threads disappeared, leaving her thigh unmarked and, apparently, fully healed.

Silence descended between the three of them. His mouth hanging open, all words seemed to fail the medical doctor. Briefly, he considered another 'tea' incident, with Sherlock experimenting on John's mental capacities without his knowledge.

But Sherlock seemed to be in a similar state of awe, though the clenching of his fists at his side indicated a growing anger.

Molly stood, disregarding her torn and bloody clothes. Tear tracks marred her face, her cheeks still pale and glistening with sweat. The usually timid pathologist walked purposefully to the seething Sherlock and, despite her diminutive size, seemed to tower over him in her wrath.

Her eyes flashed silver and her voice was laced with underlying steel as she hissed, 'I may heal, Sherlock Holmes, but that does not mean I do not feel the fire of a bullet or the terror of agonizing pain and death. Remember that the next time you point a gun at me.'

'If you had been honest with me, I would not have had to resort to such measures to satisfy my disbelief,' Sherlock retorted.

'That was not a choice for you to make,' she hissed. 'My secrets were kept hidden for your protection, damn it.'

She turned to the gobsmacked doctor and smiled gently, 'John, do sit down before you faint.'


	4. A Light in the Darkness

Shaking violently, John nodded dumbly and felt his way into the chair behind him, unable to take his eyes from the scene in front of him.

Molly sighed, her anger melting away. Resignedly, she turned back to Sherlock. ‘Now that you are… _aware_ of what I am, I suppose there remains nothing left for me to hide. And I see Mycroft has briefed you on my file. Ask away.’

Sherlock clapped his hands, smiling, ‘Excellent!’

John stared at him incredulously, his mouth still gaping wide. ‘Hold the bloody fuck up. What is going on? She… her leg… was _shattered!_ ’

‘Operative word being ‘was’, John,’ Sherlock rolled his eyes. He waved a hand between him and Molly, ‘If you would elaborate for the sake of Doctor Watson, _please_.’

Molly flinched at the derision he inflected as he spoke. She sighed and sat across from John in Sherlock’s chair. Catching his wide eyes, she spoke softly but firmly, ‘Short version: I’m not human. At least, I don’t think I am.’

John stared at her dumbly. He pointed a shaky hand at her thigh, ‘And… the-uh…’

‘The healing thing?’ He nodded. Molly smiled ruefully, ‘I feel pain, but any wound heals. Even from death.’

If possible, his eyes widened even further in disbelief. ‘Right. Okay.’ His brow furrowed and he breathed steadily through his nose. Molly waited as he absorbed the information, knowing there was very little chance he would reconcile what she was with his reality. ‘Was I given something? Drugged? Some hallucinogenic from Baskerville?’ He looked hopefully up at Sherlock, who smirked and shook his head.

‘Okay then,’ he sat back in his chair in a slump.

Molly swallowed as she realized that she may have just lost a friend. ‘John? I know it’s a lot to-’

‘So you’re a bit like a god?’

She blinked at the question, surprised to see a slight smile on his face.

‘Um, I guess. If immortality is the only qualification,’ she shrugged.

Behind her, Sherlock murmured in thought, ‘A god…’

Ignoring him, John suddenly leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘So how old are you?’

Molly visibly flinched, surprised by both the question and his apparent sudden acceptance of the situation. ‘Um, I’m not sure exactly…’ she stammered.

‘So, pretty old then?’ John adopted a flirtatious smile, ‘You’re looking damn fine for an old woman.’

Completely caught off guard by his attitude, Molly laughed. Truly laughed for the first time in years, relief lifting some of the weight off her shoulders. John accepted her. Whatever she was, it didn’t set him off.

And for the first time in her life, she had a friend who knew her secret. And it didn’t scare them away.

For his part, John was still coming to terms with what he had seen and learned. Molly Hooper, sweet Molly Hooper with the enormous crush on his oblivious and caustic best friend, wasn’t human and was older than any person had a right to be.

He still wasn’t completely sure his mind wasn’t impaired by some experiment of Sherlock’s, but he was beginning to understand that it was real.

‘So, am I ever going to have a friend who doesn’t have a huge secret?’ He joked ruefully, eliciting another laugh from his friend. Seeing the utter relief in Molly’s eyes, he stood and pulled her to her feet and enveloped her in a hug. ‘If I can forgive Sherlock for making me believe him to be dead, and Mary for hiding a life as an assassin, I _think_ I can forgive you for hiding your own secret.’

Against his shoulder, he felt Molly hiccup a half-sob, half-laugh, as she whispered a muffled ‘Thank you.’

Sherlock sneered at the sentimental display of friendship between Molly and John. Unlike himself, John had easily come to terms with this new reality. And it aggravated him. He was supposed to be the smart one, and yet, John’s vacant mind was able to grasp Molly’s situation easier than Sherlock was.

Molly and John separated, each surreptitiously wiping tears from their eyes. Sherlock turned from them and began examining Molly’s timeline once more.

‘Always _Molly_. Why?’ He murmured in question, hands on his hips. In his peripherals, he saw John and Molly flank his sides.

She shrugged. ‘I chose it and it sort of stuck.’

‘Not a very Victorian name,’ he sneered. Molly swallowed thickly.

‘I’m not a very Victorian woman.’

John leaned around Sherlock to ask, ‘Around what era were you born?’

Molly waved him off dismissively. ‘Oh, I forgot that ages ago. It only reminds me that I’m getting older.’

Something must have given her away, for Sherlock turned to stare down at her. His eyes raked over her crudely, as though trying to see the rings of age in her very bones. ‘No, you do remember, though you have tried very hard to forget and have failed in that regard.’

Flashes of her life, a lonely, bitter existence, crossed her mind.

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Molly spat, clenching her fists in anger. She turned her face away as tears burned her eyes. ‘If you had to live a thousand lifetimes, living and dying, watching everyone you’ve ever loved turn to dust, wouldn’t you do everything you could to simply _forget_?’

Sherlock absorbed the information, his eyes blinking slowly as he stared at her. ‘I am… sorry. I did not intend to cause you distress.’

Molly held her expression firmly, refusing to let her face show any more weakness, and nodded sharply. A warmth on her shoulder caught her attention and she was surprised to see John standing behind her, offering her some form of comfort. She pulled her lips back in a small smile of gratitude.

She knew Sherlock would not let any of this go, nothing would escape his scrutiny. But the thought of baring her entire existence to him, of being completely open and vulnerable, scared her to the core. Without his help, though, she might never find Moriarty’s puppetmaster.

She straightened her shoulders in resolution. That would be unacceptable. Sherlock would get his answers, they would defeat this threat, and then she would disappear, taking her secrets with her.

With a decisive nod, Molly picked up the Sherlock’s pen and a blank paper square.

‘Better start at the beginning, boys.’ She scribbled a date on the paper and tacked it far down the wall from where Sherlock’s timeline began.

They stared at the date as she stepped back, their eyes wide in surprise and not a small hint of disbelief.

‘You were born in 43… BC?’ asked John.

Molly shook her head, laughing mirthlessly. ‘No. I don’t know when I was born, if I even was. _That,_ ’ she pointed at the piece of paper with the hated date, ‘is simply the first day I remember existing.’

‘Right,’ John nodded dumbly. ‘Tea may be a bit mild for this. I need something stronger.’

For the next few hours, Molly guided them through her long, but mediocre existence in general detail. Every couple decades, she would change her surname and move on, leaving behind nothing that could be traced to her. Around the mid-19th century, with the growth of economies and advances in technology, her paper trail began. However, she maintained a clean record that raised no red flags. For a time, she was a governess, then a maid, before she moved to the Americas and worked in a small shop; each job less impacting than its predecessor. Finally, in the early 2000s, she returned to London and pursued a more honorable job in pathology.

‘Why pathology?’ Sherlock inquired. ‘It’s quite different from your previous career choices.’

A casual lie, the one she always gave, lay on her tongue. But honesty was key when dealing with the Human Consulting Lie Detector. ‘My friend. Peter. He was dying and his body was… taken.’

‘How do you mean, ‘taken’?’

‘Possessed.’ Molly bit out, remembering the horror of soulless eyes staring up at her from the face of her beloved friend. She explained that Peter had been a father figure to her, guiding and supporting her. The only one to know that she was not what she seemed, though she never divulged her secret.

‘Whatever possessed him had torn his soul in half, creating the equivalent of human schizophrenia, a duo-mortal soul: two mortal entities embodying the same transport. It was through his urging when he was in control, that I decided to pursue pathology and became adept at identifying demi- and semi-mortal souls from the bodies filtering through my morgue. A body fresh in death was susceptible to possession and, through a particularly trying experience, I discovered my sword was able to destroy the possessor, but at the cost of its possession.’

‘Sword?’

‘Demi- and semi-mortal souls?’

Both Sherlock and John spoke at the same time. Molly glanced between the two of them.

‘A semi-mortal soul,’ she answered Sherlock, who leaned forward in his chair, ‘is what a demon calls itself when it inhabits a deceased body. It contains all the power of the possessor, but retains the mortality of its possession. A demi-mortal soul is a demon that inhabits any body, living or dead, but is higher ranking and more powerful than its inferiors.’

‘And how are you aware of the ranking of these _demons_?’ Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow.

Molly stared firmly back at him to spite his disbelief. ‘They are not humble or subtle in their arrogance. They told me everything I needed to know. Ensuring their own downfall, but alas, their pride would not be contained.’

‘If I may,’ John interrupted. ‘How many of these… broken souls have you done away with?’

‘A fair few,’ Molly answered with a shrug. ‘My interference probably has no great effect. The bodies still rot, so the demons generally incinerate the transport within a day or two. Their intentions aren’t honorable, but for the most part, they only cause a little mischief. It is demi-mortal souls like Moran that are dangerous. He is, I mean, he was, the highest-ranking demon I’d encountered.’

‘Moran is dead?’ John gaped. ‘Since when?’

‘Three days ago, John. Do keep up.’ Sherlock rolled his eyes and gestured for Molly to continue.

‘Actually, I’d like to know why you didn’t inform me about Moran’s death? We’ve been hunting him for months!’ John glared at the Consulting Detective. Then he flinched as the conversation caught up with him and he turned to Molly in disbelief. ‘Moran was a demon?’

‘Moriarty’s second-in-command and a demi-mortal soul,’ Molly explained. ‘Either he consistently body-hopped or some… _thing_ gave the body he chose some sort of decay-prevention. I ensured his end either way.’

John narrowed his eyes. ‘Ensured it how?’

For a second, Molly hesitated. But John had already accepted (or appeared to accept) everything she’d thrown his way up to this point. She stood slowly, but determinedly.

‘You’ll enjoy this, John,’ Sherlock muttered crossly as he sunk into his chair with a petulant pout.

The past few hours had taken their toll on all three of them. But John thought he was handling the onslaught of information quite well. Until Molly stood and in an instant was transformed into a silver-haired warrior goddess.

Well aware that he had been gaping at her armor-clad body for several minutes, John finally shook himself from his surprised stupor. Molly sat back down on the sofa, holding a thrumming white blade across her lap. Her posture was tense and her eyes were wide and somewhat fearful of his rejection.

With a glance at the half-full glass of scotch Sherlock had wordlessly placed in his hand, John threw it back and cleared his throat. He held the glass out in Sherlock’s general direction, unable to tear his eyes away from Molly.

‘I may need more of this.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting far more complicated than I imagined it would be. Hope you all are still enjoying it!


	5. Enter the Darkness

The night had taken a toll on Sherlock's mental capacity, stretching his logic to the point of near breaking. John had fallen asleep on the sofa half an hour ago, his mouth dangling open like a child's and a bit of drool making its way down his chin. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in amused disgust at the sight. He was still resentful of John's carefree acceptance of Molly's revelation.

He steepled his hands under his chin, staring at the woman across from him. Having shifted back into her bloodied clothes, her wings vanishing into the air, Molly stared back at him. Her gaze didn't waver and he found himself comparing the timid Molly he'd known with the confidence and power flowing from the enigma before him.

He broke the silence with a question that had been nagging him for the past few days. 'How did Mycroft come to recruit you?'

To his surprise, a smile graced her face and she laughed gently. 'He didn't.'

'Oh?'

Her eyes glazed over a bit as she remembered. 'He'd accosted me, for lack of better word, when you and I first began working together. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't aware of his 'good' intentions and relation to you.'

For the first time all night, Sherlock smiled, seeing where this was going.

'By the time I realized he wasn't after me for, well, _me,_ I'd knocked out his security team and was holding my sword to his throat, while he was pleading with me not to kill him.' Molly bit her lip and averted her eyes. 'Don't tell him I told you. I do feel really bad about it still.'

Though he nodded, Sherlock had no intention of following through. It was like every Christmas rolled into one and he would lord that over Mycroft for decades. Molly must have seen the gleam in his eye and shook her head fondly.

'Tell me about Peter.'

Molly blinked at the sudden change in topic. 'What would you like to know?'

'When did you know him? How many lifetimes ago?'

To anyone else, the question would seem strange, but Sherlock was beginning to understand that for Molly, time wasn't condensed into a matter of decades, but was a stretch of millennia that would baffle even his own intellect.

'This lifetime, actually.' Molly smiled and snuggled under a nearby throw. 'I was in America, Chicago, trying to find something to do to alleviate the boredom. I ran into Peter one day when we both ordered the same drinks at a café, but he took mine with the skim milk. In any other life, it would have made for a cliché meet-cute, but Peter was nearing 50 and I… well, I had a couple centuries on him.' Her eyes drifted over his shoulder as she thought back. 'He sensed that I wasn't what I seemed. That I was lonely. That I had separated myself from the prospect of being hurt.'

Sherlock's eyes softened in understanding.

Molly shrugged one shoulder. 'Anyway, he pretty much established himself permanently in my life. He encouraged me to pursue pathology. He thought it would be perfect for me, I would be doing good while remaining somewhat distant from human interaction.'

'He knew about... what you are?' Sherlock frowned.

She shook her head. 'No, but I think he knew that I wasn't… exactly human.' Her eyes drifted down and a sadness seemed to overtake her. 'And he suffered and died because of that knowledge. If I hadn't begun fighting demons, they never would have taken him. They had no use for an old man dying from an aggressive cancer, but I was becoming a problem and they knew the quickest way to take me out was to attack someone I loved.'

The moonlight through the window illuminated her pale features and cast a gentle shimmer across her eyes as her thoughts drifted. 'Even in the end, though, he fought them. He refused to let them win even if it meant…'

'That you had to kill him,' Sherlock finished for her.

Anguish lined her face, but she stared back at him with strength he could not help admiring. 'It was his last request.' Her eyes glazed over in memory and she quoted long-spoken, but never-forgotten words, ' _Don't let them take me over, Molly. I know you can stop them, I don't know how and I don't care. But you've got a strength inside of you to take on a thousand demon armies and I know you can stop them. Do this for me. So I don't live on as a shell of a soul given over to a demon._ '

'I ran after that. I couldn't face the remnants of that life once he was gone; not after what I had done to him.' A glistening tear fell down her cheek. 'I came to London and lost myself in the city, I did everything I could to be alone, to not form attachments, so no one else would suffer because of what I am and what I had to do. But then you came along, with your deductions and your brilliance and that bloody coat…' She glared at him wryly and sighed. 'And you just had to break down all my defenses.'

Sherlock swallowed and averted his gaze.

'Before I knew it, I was in deeper than I'd ever been before.' She smiled sadly. 'And I loved it. The excitement, the adventure, being a part of your life in whatever small way you let me. It gave me purpose. It made me forget that in a number of years, it would all be gone. You and John and Greg… you would all leave me and I'd have to move on again.'

The sorrowful ache in her voice tugged at his heart. He knew what it was like to fear losing something, someone, precious. That was, after all, why he'd jumped off the roof.

And Molly had not only lost everyone she loved, but she knew she would always lose anyone she loved eventually and yet she still opened her heart and let them in.

Sherlock was struck dumb by the thought.

Suddenly, from the sofa, John let out an inelegant snort and smacked his lips together, turning over in his sleep.

Molly laughed softly, the solemnity evaporating as Sherlock joined her in mirth. Their laughter faded eventually and Sherlock leaned his elbows on his knees, leveling her with a focused stare. 'Whatever you are, Molly Hooper, I will never divulge your secret,' he promised. 'Nor will I hurt you purposefully. I am sorry… for earlier.'

Molly smiled. 'You are always forgiven, Sherlock.'

'Now, shall we make our battle plan?' He clapped his hands together, jolting John awake.

The doctor mumbled nonsensically as he sat upright, his hair mussed and his cheek showing red marks from the pillow. 'S'it mornin'?'

Molly ignored him and jumped to her feet, grabbing Sherlock's arm. 'Sherlock, absolutely not. You are _not_ getting involved!'

'Molly, you've known me for so many years,' Sherlock admonished teasingly. 'Since when have I ever listened to my elders?'

Knowing that he had a point, that he would charge headfirst into it whether or not he had her permission, Molly stepped back and crossed her arms. 'The _moment_ you get in too deep, I will drag you out by the collar of your poshly-tailored jacket, do you understand?'

His gleeful smile was her answer.

She watched and bit her lip in concern as he ordered John into the kitchen to make tea while he began to pace about the room, as if his body needed to keep time with his racing thoughts.

'Oh, Sherlock,' she murmured worriedly, wondering if she'd just set him free on the path to his own destruction.

* * *

Rain pattered on the glass ceiling above them.

'He's back, then.'

'Indeed.' Mycroft affirmed. 'Alert all Alpha Teams to return to British soil post haste.'

It was only due to her extensive training that Anthea was able to contain her surprise and type out the orders on her Blackberry. 'Done.'

Mycroft stood and straightened his cuffs with firm tugs. 'And summon Molly Hooper to the tertiary meeting location. I require answers. And I will get them.'

'Yes, sir.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves sheepishly* Sorry it's been so long! I'm hoping to get back into this regularly and get this wrapped up! The ending is actually written, so it's just a matter of getting there. :)


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